


The Secret Art of Note Taking

by neverbirds



Category: The Book of Mormon - Ambiguous Fandom, The Book of Mormon - Parker/Stone/Lopez
Genre: Canon Compliant, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-20 07:39:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13142082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neverbirds/pseuds/neverbirds
Summary: Connor doesn’t mention the note, so Kevin doesn’t either. Connor is always telling Kevin to stop making everything weird. The thing is, Kevin is great at making things weird. And he really likes being good at things.So Kevin writes another one.This one sayssorry about the weird note.The second one says,I changed my mind, I’m not really very sorry at all.And it’s downhill from there.





	The Secret Art of Note Taking

**Author's Note:**

> This is my secret santa present for the lovely Jordan, aka @insertacreativenamehere. It was both a pleasure and incredibly difficult to write, and I really really hope you like it!!

It starts with Arnold’s birthday. Most things start because of Arnold, somehow or another. Kevin goes all out. He’s not really the kind of guy to half-ass anything, after all. He makes sure Nabulungi keeps Arnold busy long enough to decorate the hut to his standards, he double checks everybody has a present for him, and painstakingly counts down the time until he knows Arnold is going to burst through the door like sunshine on a cloudy day. He hopes Arnold is actually surprised by his surprise birthday party, but neither of them are particularly subtle people and Arnold is more perceptive than he lets on. Still, Kevin makes sure it’s as perfect as perfect can be, fully aware that Prophet Cunningham is probably going to get over excited, knock over the food table, drink too quickly, and pass out with his head resting on Kevin’s shoulder. It’s the thought that counts.

“You can probably stop now,” says Connor, hovering his hand over Kevin’s shoulder. Kevin knows that it must be difficult to tell, sometimes, if Kevin is going to lean into the touch or if he’s going to freak out and have a tantrum because somebody entered his personal space uninvited. Kevin finds it difficult to tell, too. He gets wound up easily and never knows how to unwind. Usually he just waits and waits until he explodes, getting his emotions all over everyone - well, let’s face it, usually all over Connor. It’s not Kevin’s fault if Connor pushes into all of his empty spaces. It’s like he’s choosing to be collateral damage. Kevin rearranges the bowls on the table until they’re perfectly aligned. “It’s not like Arnold cares about things like appearances.”

“I care about appearances,” says Kevin, squinting around the room to find whatever is left imperfect. “Something’s not right.”

“It’s in your head,” says Connor, shrugging. “Everything looks great to me.”

“I feel bad,” says Kevin, looking at the sparse table of food forlornly. “I didn’t even do this much for your birthday, never mind everyone else.”

“But he’s Arnold,” says Connor. “I know.”

“I owe him a lot,” says Kevin. “And I don’t always know how to repay him.”

“You’re doing a pretty good job,” says Connor. “You didn’t need to do this. Arnold loves you.”

“I know,” says Kevin.

“And,” says Connor, not looking at Kevin. “You don’t have to prove that you deserve people’s love.”

“Drop it,” says Kevin, feeling his stomach wind around itself again.

“Sorry,” says Connor, holding up his hands. “Sorry you’re such a _jerk_.”

“Takes one to know one,” says Kevin, before checking his watch. “He’s late.”

“Of course he is,” says Connor, before wandering off to talk to Thomas and Michaels on the other side of the room. Kevin watches him walk away, and Church coughs pointedly.

“What?” says Kevin, giving him a look.

“You know what,” says Church.

“Shut up,” says Kevin, because he is still not-so-secretly a small child and he’s terrible at comebacks, anyway. There’s not much point in arguing with Church, who can silence you with a glare. He’s the only person people actually quieten down for when he shushes them. Not even Connor can wrangle everybody together like he can. He’s a little frightening. “Can you get everybody into their positions?”

“Sure,” says Church, standing on top of a chair.

Arnold is going to come through the door any second now, and Kevin can feel himself getting more and more tense as time goes on. He knows that his lateness must mean him and Nabulungi are doing something disgusting, and he’s trying really hard not to picture it.

Arnold arrives eventually, because all things are inevitable. He’s not surprised, but he acts it anyway, and Kevin is grateful. He hugs Kevin at least four times, once barreling into him from behind - before running off to where he must have spotted something either shiny or delicious - when Kevin had a mouthful of rice, causing him to almost choke to death to the sounds of Connor and Church laughing at him.

“Rude,” he says, wiping his watering eyes. “If I’d died, you wouldn’t be laughing.”

“Yes I would,” says Connor. “Loudly. And for a long time.”

“You’re the most dramatic person I’ve ever met,” says Church, in his most deliberately deadpan voice. “You’d go out with more of a bang than choking to death on stew.”

“Thank you?” says Kevin, unsure of himself in a way that’s unfamiliar, but he’s getting used to it.

“Drink more,” says Nabulungi, appearing behind him holding three beers.

“Beer is disgusting,” Connor declares, before downing half of it and pulling a face. “Gotta get it over with,” he explains to Church, whose expression is both impressed and disbelieving.

“It’s not so bad,” says Kevin. Nabulungi laughs, and slaps him on the shoulder.

“You threw up the first time,” she says. Connor raises his eyebrows at him.

“Because you didn’t stop me!” Kevin exclaims. “It’s not my fault if the poor Mormon boy didn’t know when enough was enough.”

“Do not poor Mormon boy me,” says Nabulungi. “Get that drunk again tonight. As a birthday present to Arnold. He loves drunk Kevin.”

“Okay,” Kevin agrees easily, before downing as much of his beer as he can. “He loves drunk Kevin because drunk Kevin is overly affectionate.”

“Drunk Kevin is hilarious,” says Church. “You have no boundaries at all.”

“He doesn’t understand boundaries anyway,” says Connor.

“What does that mean?”

Connor tips Kevin’s bottle when he brings it to his mouth, forcing him to drink more.

“Chug,” says Church, in his driest voice.

“Ugh,” says Kevin. “Come on, keep up.”

They do.

Arnold appears again, eventually, and Kevin drapes himself over him like a blanket.

“Happy _birthday_ ,” he says, happily, and gives him a wet kiss on the cheek.

“Who let him get this drunk?” says Arnold. “Just kidding. I love it.”

“Best friend,” Kevin declares. “You are my best friend.”

“Okay, bud,” says Arnold, lightly patting him on the back.

“Blame Nabulungi,” says Kevin. “Ooh, we should play a game.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know,” says Kevin. “I never really went to any birthday parties. And we’re doing things we’ve never done, right?”

Connor snorts.

“What, do you want to play spin the bottle?”

Church nudges him with his elbow, and Connor pulls a face at him.

“ _You_ want to play spin the bottle. Don’t make it look like it was Price’s idea.”

“Shut up,” says Connor, glaring at him. He’s a little drunk, too, and he turns very pink.

“I was thinking more like pass the parcel,” says Kevin, whose eyes are starting to glaze over as he looks over at Connor without any real reason. He’s just nice to look at. “Or musical chairs.”

“Seven minutes in Heaven?”

“Good lord,” says Connor, raising his eyebrows. “Who do you want to get into a cupboard with, Elder Church?”

“I was thinking of you,” says Church. Connor hits him, and it looks like it might actually hurt, but Church is built like an old oak tree so he doesn’t even flinch. “Not in _that_ way. Just trying to do you a favour.”

“Why?” says Arnold. “It’s not a bad idea, though, me and Nabulungi -”

“Don’t need a game to pressure you into making out,” says Kevin, rolling his eyes. “I’ve already _heard_ you do more than that. Loudly. Several times.”

“That’s not true,” Arnold protests. Kevin is always impressed by how easily lies fall out of his mouth.

“One time I was still in the room,” he tells Connor and Church. Connor wrinkles his nose.

“Elder Cunningham,” he starts, but doesn’t finish. “Oh well. It is your birthday. I can’t stay mad at you,” and then he pinches his cheeks.

“Hey, hey,” says Kevin, slapping his hand away. “It’s my job to manhandle the birthday boy.”

“One might say you have impure intentions,” says Connor.

“Too many big words,” says Kevin, leaning his elbow on Arnold’s shoulder.

“Three syllables is too long for you?”

“Shh,” says Kevin, pressing his finger to Connor’s lips. Connor goes cross-eyed looking down at it, making Kevin laugh. His stomach churns, warningly.

“Oh my God,” says Church, rolling his eyes. Kevin takes his finger away, and Connor glares at him, but doesn’t have a comeback. “You two are honestly the worst.”

“What?” they both say in unison.

“Oblivious idiots,” Church explains.

Kevin looks over at Church, and then back to Connor.

“I’m going to go throw up now,” he announces, and bolts outside.

He does throw up. A lot. It makes him panic, every time he does this when he drinks too much, because his mind swirls and he’s suddenly, painfully reminded that he has no control over his brain or body. He feels like he’s never going to _stop_ throwing up, and his eyes are fuzzy and it’s hot out and he doesn’t feel too good. He’s vaguely aware of a hand rubbing his back, but doesn’t acknowledge it until his brain connects with his body again.

“You’re okay,” says Connor. “You’re gross, but you’re okay.”

“Am I?” says Kevin, clutching his sides.

“Yep,” says Connor. “You’re all good. Just had a bit too much fun.”

“No such thing,” says Kevin. “Spoilsport.”

“You’re the party pooper,” says Connor. “I think you actually turned green, you know.”

“It’s not a real party unless somebody throws up,” says Kevin, because Connor said that to him the last time he got drunk and threw up.

Connor hums.

“You’re not like, sad drunk Kevin are you? Because sad drunk Kevin is no fun for anyone.”

“I’m not a performing monkey,” says Kevin, swallowing down bile.

“I never said you were,” says Connor. “I’m just worried about you.”

When was the last time somebody was _worried_ about him? Probably never, now that he thinks about it. People are usually either idolise him or are disappointed in him. There’s not really much in between.

“No need,” says Kevin. “I’m fine.”

He’s getting very used to lying these days, but he’s pretty certain Connor sees straight through him. He’s a natural liar, second only to Arnold, who seems to find it as easy as breathing. It’s just more obvious when he’s lying. Connor’s secrets are insidious, and very private, and he’s so difficult to read, especially for Kevin who has minimal social skills. And, as he’s been learning painfully and slowly, like pulling teeth, is kind of stupid. That doesn’t mean he’s not going to try, though.

“You’re a really bad liar,” says Connor. “Especially when you’re drunk.”

Kevin looks at him, then, and _knows_ he must look ridiculous. Kevin’s face gets all pink and puffy when he’s been drinking and his eyes glaze over and he loses all motor function control. This is his excuse - not that he really needs one, people tend to not question the impulsive moves Kevin makes - for turning and throwing his arms around Connor. If it’s a little dramatic, Connor doesn’t say anything. Connor hugs him back, and even gifts Kevin a small squeeze.

“You’re okay,” Connor says, rubbing his hand in little soothing circles. “Are you ready to go back?”

Kevin nods. They go back inside, and Arnold didn’t even notice Kevin and Connor were missing because he’s too busy being gross with Nabulungi. Nabulungi did say that birthday kisses were the greatest present of all, and she’s been showering Arnold with gifts all night long. It makes Kevin’s heart ache when he looks at them, but Connor maneuvers him towards Church and Davis and keeps his hand on his elbow for most of the night. He hates feeling he’s been being baby sat. _He’s worried about you_ , says his brain, and then Kevin suddenly doesn’t feel all that bad about it.

Kevin tries to think of the perfect way to say thank you all night. The problem is that he’s not sure if thank you is the right sentiment. He just wants to say _something_. He wants to say something incredible. Connor deserves incredible, his sloppy brain insists. It’s just the saying it part that’s hard. He knows Connor doesn’t appreciate Kevin’s soppiness, especially not when they’re in company - sometimes, just _sometimes_ , when they’re having one of their now regular miserable two am hang outs, Connor will rest his head on Kevin’s shoulder and one time when Kevin was particularly upset, even held his hand - and Kevin doesn’t want to piss him off.

So Kevin slips a note under his door.

 _You mean a lot to me_ , it says.

He’s drunk, and his handwriting is sloppy and half-unreadable, but it seems like a great idea. It feels like the best idea he’s ever had. He’s not so good with actually talking about his feelings, but neither is Connor, and sometimes it makes them butt heads and bicker and Kevin doesn’t feel like fighting because he tried to tell Connor something nice, for once.

So he writes it down.

 

***

Connor doesn’t mention the note, so Kevin doesn’t either. Connor is always telling Kevin to stop making everything weird. The thing is, Kevin is great at making things weird. And he really likes being good at things.

So Kevin writes another one.

This one says _sorry about the weird note_.

The second one says, _I changed my mind, I’m not really very sorry at all._

And it’s downhill from there.

 

***

When Kevin doesn’t know which words that are jumbled in his brain he should write down, he turns to other methods of expressing himself without actually having to talk about them. He picks up a new, secret hobby. He starts sketching.

He starts big, of course, and tries to draw the view of Kitguli from the shade of his favourite tree after class one day when everyone else is busy and he’s bored down to his bones. It turns out horribly. The perspective is all off and he can’t even draw a straight line and everything ends up out of proportion. He screws it up and sulks about it for twenty minutes, laid flat on his back on the grass, squinting his eyes and shading them with his hand. Eventually a shadow appears above him, blocking out the sun.

“Are you sad again?” says Connor’s silhouette, hand on one hip, head cocked to the side in that way that he does.

“No,” Kevin lies, petulantly.

Connor sits down next to him and Kevin rolls over before sitting up, too, resting his weight on the palms of his hands behind him. He doesn’t look at him, because he’s genuinely afraid that if he does he’ll burst into tears, so he swallows the explosion of emotions back down into his chest and his stomach where they settle, buzzing and annoyed.

“It’s okay,” says Connor. He ruffles Kevin’s hair from behind. “You’re allowed to be sad.”

“So are you,” says Kevin. “And everyone else. But I don’t see anyone other than me having meltdowns over nothing every other day.”

“So you have issues,” says Connor, shrugging. “It doesn’t really matter. Weren’t we supposed to be letting our feelings out?”

“Most people don’t feel urges to hurt everyone around them and then themselves just because one little thing went wrong,” says Kevin. He feels frustrated and embarrassed. The only reason these words are even tumbling out of his mouth in the first place is because Connor caught him hot and bothered and upset before he could practice his breathing like Arnold taught him. “Why can’t I be good at anything that doesn’t involve the stupid Bible or church or God?”

“You’re good at lots of things,” says Connor. “You’re a good teacher. You’re a good friend.”

“Am I?”

“Of course you are,” says Connor. “Remember Arnold’s birthday?”

He says it without any expression or emotion in his voice. Kevin wonders if he’s talking about the party or the note.

“Not really,” says Kevin. “I was out of this world drunk for most of it.”

Connor laughs, and Kevin feels the ice around his angry heart start to thaw a little.

“You don’t have to be good at everything,” says Connor. “And not right away, anyway. You were a good Mormon because you were practicing your whole life.”

“Practice,” says Kevin, as if he’s never even heard of the concept.

“Obviously,” says Connor. Kevin turns to look at him properly, and catches him rolling his eyes. Kevin pulls a face back, which makes Connor smile, which in turn causes a little flutter of something rattling in his ribcage. “Like riding a bike, right?”

“I don’t know how to ride a bike,” says Kevin, absently. He fell off once and never got back on again. It barely even occurred to him to _try_.

“Really?” says Connor. “I thought you could do anything.”

Kevin looks at him, properly looks at him, and thinks, _you look like you’d be nice to draw_. The thought comes out of nowhere, and it bothers him, but only because Elder McKinley is giving him the strangest look back and Kevin hates to think what his face is telling him.

“Sometimes, you need to let things happen on their own,” says Connor. “You can’t force it.”

“I’ll be patient,” says Kevin. He thinks they might be, all of a sudden, having an entirely different conversation to the one they were having before Kevin’s brain decided to get all weird about everything. Connor smiles, and it looks a little sad.

“No, you won’t,” says Connor. “But you might as well try it. See what happens.”

“Okay,” Kevin agrees, before his brain has processed what he’s saying.

 _Patience_ , he thinks. He can do that. Connor is right - Kevin can do anything. If he sets his mind to it, that is.

 

***

So Kevin writes notes - a _lot_ of notes - and hides them for Connor to find, like a treasure hunt. He has to keep them secret, so he hides them in his pillowcase and in his shoes and in between the pages of his Book of Arnold.

They’re only small, ambiguous things, like _you looked nice today_ tucked into the collar of his shirt, or _Kamali ate a crayon today, if Dembe comes looking for me tell her I’ve died_ in his pants pocket.

“I know what you’re doing,” says Arnold, one day, when they’re lounging in what was a comfortable silence on their beds. “I’m not an idiot.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” says Kevin, because he doesn’t want to talk about it, and besides, he doesn’t really know why he’s doing it in the first place.

“You don’t need to do this to get him to notice you,” says Arnold. Kevin glares at him. “You’re pretty hard to miss.”

Kevin thinks about this for a while. He’s not yet self-aware enough to be able to understand some of the things his brain tells him is a good idea, but it’s not for lack of trying.

“I’m not going to stop doing it,” says Kevin.

“I know,” says Arnold. “It’s pretty hard to stop you from doing anything you set your mind to. Even when it’s something stupid. Especially when it’s something stupid, actually.”

“Do you think what I’m doing is stupid?”

“No,” says Arnold, shaking his head emphatically. “I think it’s sweet. But as your best friend, I gotta tell you, it is a little creepy.”

Kevin chooses to focus on the sweet part, not on the ‘stop watching his every move so you can figure out the best time to hide one of your weird notes’ part.

He’s already drafting his next note in his head.

 _why are you letting me do this_ , he scribbles on the back of an old receipt he finds shoved into his pocket from the last time they went to Kampala.

“What are you writing now?” says Arnold, peering curiously over at him.

“None of your business,” says Kevin, folding over the piece of paper four times exactly.

“I tell you everything!” says Arnold, looking thoroughly scandalised at the idea that Kevin would willingly keep a secret from him.

“You tell me too much,” says Kevin. “Way too much.”

“Has he ever written you back?”

“No,” says Kevin. Then he grins, and it takes him by surprise. “That’s half the fun.”

“Maybe he doesn’t like your weird notes,” says Arnold. “But he’s just too polite to tell you.”

“Since when has Connor ever been polite to me,” Kevin says.

“A fair point,” says Arnold. He flops over onto his back, bouncing on the bed a little.

“I’ll tell you one day, maybe,” Kevin offers, even though he probably won’t. He does feel a little guilty, hiding something from Arnold, who would offer Kevin the entire world, stars and moon if he could. But they sound so stupid, is the thing, and Arnold would laugh at him and the odd bits of nonsense he’s decided to bother Connor with. Arnold probably thinks he’s writing long love letters and declaring his intentions via torn out cover pages of his battered Book of Mormon. He’s not, though. He’s just - writing things down that come to his head and bothering Connor with them. He doesn’t know why. He just is. He started doing it, and now he can’t stop. He feels like it’s important, somehow. He feels - well. Connor doesn’t take too well to public displays of affection, and neither would Kevin, really, if it weren’t for Arnold breaking down all his walls with a sledgehammer. Connor doesn’t have an Arnold. Connor does have a Kevin, though, and an increasingly large pile of handwritten notes.

 

***

Kevin draws a chair when he’s sitting alone on the couch, early in the morning, because he hated drawing fruit in school and there’s not much else that’s interesting enough to sketch. It’s the first thing he draws in proportion, and he’s so proud of it he doesn’t even tear it up.

He’s so busy trying to figure out how shadows work that he doesn’t notice Michaels slink into the kitchen after the has sun started to rise, littering the room with rays of light.

“What are you doing?” says Michaels.

“Nothing!” says Kevin, stuffing his sheet of paper behind a throw pillow.

“It’s not like you to be so secretive,” says Michaels. Luckily he doesn’t look like he wants an answer, because he immediately scours the shelves for something to eat and doesn’t seem too concerned about how pink Kevin must be. He turns to consider Kevin, and says around a mouthful of banana, “McKinley is the private one. You’re emotionally messy.”

Kevin sort of likes, sort of hates when he and Connor are described as some kind of package deal, as if one is inherently linked to the other. It happens a surprising amount.

“It’s too early to be talking about this, Elder Michaels,” says Kevin. “I need at least two more coffees.”

Michaels shrugs.

“You’ve been up for hours,” he says as a statement, a confident fact, and not a question. Living in a house with seven boys is very different to living in a house of seven people. They all know each other inside and out, their schedules and habits and favourite foods, but the difference is that nobody is _telling_ them how to do any of those things. He doesn’t need to be up at a specific time to take his sisters to school, he doesn’t need to worry about when his mother will be home, and on Sundays he’s as free as a bird.

“Doesn’t mean I’m not tired,” says Kevin, feeling himself descend into one of his sullen and petulant moods. He does this often enough that Michaels seems barely phased.

“What’s going on?” says Church, looking exactly the same as he always does, even though he’s just woken up, and even _Kevin_ looks like shit for a good half an hour in the morning.

“Price is keeping secrets,” says Elder Michaels.

Church stares him down, and Kevin _knows_ that Church knows something that he thinks Kevin doesn’t know. Jokes on him, Kevin thinks. He has _two_ dirty little secrets. There’s another one, possibly maybe somewhere deep inside his brain that nudges at the four walls of its specially gift-wrapped box, but it’s not a secret if Kevin won’t even admit it to himself.

The others filter in, and he catches Connor’s hollow eyes as he sags against the doorway. Connor doesn’t look away. Neither does Kevin.

“Price is hiding something,” Kevin hears Church say to Connor. He raises one eyebrow in Kevin’s direction.

“Is he now,” says Connor, with an air of indifference, before breaking the moment and wandering off towards the table. He doesn’t look back at Kevin, even though Connor must feel his eyes on his back when he walks away.

 

***

Connor looks ridiculous.

He’s been gardening for hours, and it’s a particularly hot day. Kevin attempted to help, but Connor glared at him until he left him alone because he can do it himself, Elder, and he doesn’t need help. Apparently. Kevin watches him from the shade of the tree with a piece of paper on his knee, drawing the flowers and vegetables and purposefully not drawing Connor in the midst of them.

Connor looks over at him, his nose turning a very unattractive shade of red. He’s going to be peeling later, and Kevin is already planning on laughing at him for it.

“You’d get it done quicker if you let me help,” Kevin yells over at him. Connor looks up and glares at him. He makes a very crude gesture with his hand that Kevin is absolutely, one hundred percent certain he’s never made before in his life. Kevin is absolutely delighted, and tells Connor as much.

“Shut up,” says Connor, loudly, and then makes a _different_ very rude and not at all Mormon-like gesture. His hair is all frizzy and curled at the ends and his shoulders are clearly burned and he has dirt all up his arms and on his shirt and on his face.

“McKinley,” Kevin yells. Connor ignores him. Whatever. He knows how to get Elder McKinley’s attention. He’s actually really, really good at it.

Kevin carefully tears half of his sketch up, and draws a little picture of Connor’s face on the blank side. It comes out okay - Connor is pretty easy to recognise from the freckles alone, even when he gets his face entirely wrong. He sticks his finger in the ground next to him, and smudges dirt over Connor’s pencil-lined face. He helpfully labels it: _you have dirt on your face_. He carefully folds the paper over and over until he’s made a passable airplane.

He throws it at the back of Connor’s head and misses miserably, but it still travels further than Kevin thought it would, and hits Connor’s leg. He bends down, picks it up, and unfolds it. Connor immediately scrubs at his face, smearing the dirt further around his cheek and onto his lip.

Connor’s shoulders sag and Kevin knows that means he’s given up entirely. He stomps over, as morosely as somebody can while stomping, and lets Kevin pull him down next to him.

“You draw,” says Connor, inspecting the other side of the paper. He puts the two pieces together and nods. “I didn’t know that.”

“There’s lots of things you don’t know about me,” says Kevin.

“Is that even true?”

“Probably not,” says Kevin, happily. “I just started a month ago.”

“You’re such a man of mystery.”

“I’m just bored,” says Kevin. “And I spend a lot of time alone, which I didn’t really expect. So I was just finding something to do, I guess.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, it’s not like you. You’ll freak me out if you don’t start boasting about how good at it you are.”

“But I’m not good,” says Kevin. “Not yet, anyway. My inability to lie trumps my ego.”

Connor snorts.

“It’s not so bad,” says Connor. “This flower came out really cool. It’s a chrysanthemum, right?”

Kevin smiles at him, suddenly and without much warning, and he accidentally uses the smile without any teeth.

“Thank you,” says Kevin. Overwhelmed by something he doesn’t understand, he licks his thumb and goes for Connor’s face, rubbing at the dirt as Connor squirms.

“Oh my God, get off - _get off me_ ,” Connor splutters as Kevin attacks him. He’s laughing, though, and Kevin is grinning like an idiot and somehow they end up with Kevin pinning Connor down on the ground and rubbing at his face as hard as he can while Connor straight up _giggles_.

But then Kevin, bull-headed and oblivious Kevin, moves his thumb over to get at the dirt that travelled to Connor’s lip. Connor stops laughing. Kevin removes his hand as quickly as he can, but he’s still got his legs pressed on either side of Connor’s, and one hand is still flat on his chest so he can’t move, and Kevin kind of mostly can’t breathe.

“Um,” says Kevin.

“Your ability to make things weird will never cease to amaze me,” says Connor. “Roll over, you big lump.”

Kevin does, resting on his elbows and watching Connor warily. Connor rolls his eyes at him.

“Calm down,” says Connor. “I already had my gay crisis.”

“Oh,” says Kevin. “That’s - good?”

“It is,” says Connor, smiling at him whilst squinting. “Even though you are incredibly dashing, Elder Price, I’m not about to fall into your arms and declare that I’m madly in love with you just because of - you know.”

“What?” says Kevin.

“You know. You don’t need to like, be nervous. Because I’m - _gay_ , or whatever.”

“I’m not following you,” says Kevin.

“You’re an idiot,” says Connor. “Don’t even worry about it. Just forget I said anything.”

He flops down so he’s lying flat on his back, running fistfuls of dirt through his fingers and absent-mindedly pulling out blades of grass.

“Do you think that I’m going to be scared that you might have a crush on me just because you like guys?”

“Maybe,” says Connor, using his hand to shield his eyes from the sun when he looks over at Kevin. It makes his gaze alarmingly dark.

“Even I’m not that conceited,” says Kevin. “Besides. That doesn’t sound all that bad anyway.”

“Excuse me?”

“You know,” says Kevin. “Hypothetically, if you _did_ have a crush on me or whatever, I - hypothetically - wouldn’t mind that much. It’s not like it would gross me out or anything.”

“Really?” says Connor, sounding very small. “Elder Thomas -”

“Why? What did Thomas do?” says Kevin, sitting upright like a switch has just been turned on at the base of his spine.

“Oh my God - chill out, Kevin,” says Connor, sounding a lot like he’s about to burst out laughing at him at any moment. “He just. Isn’t as open minded as you are, I guess.”

“Has - anyone else...?”

“Maybe,” says Connor. “I don’t know. I try not to bring it up.”

“Well,” says Kevin firmly. “You can talk about it as much as you like with me.”

“You really wouldn’t care if I had a crush on you?”

Kevin’s heart stops beating for one, two, three and a half seconds.

“No,” says Kevin. “I really wouldn’t.”

Connor studies him for a while, and Kevin tries to keep his face as blank as possible, even though that’s literally _impossible_ because his features are too expressive and although he knows that he’s allowed to lie, now, doesn’t mean he’s any good at it.

“You’re really not as much of a dick as I first thought you were,” says Connor, after a while.

“No, I probably am,” Kevin shakes his head emphatically. “This doesn’t make me a good person. Everybody who has a problem with it is a bad person, not the other way around. I’m just - neutral, I guess. Indifferent. Well, indifferent isn’t the right word, it’s not like I don’t care at all, I know it’s important, and it’s important to you, and -”

“Kevin,” says Connor, sitting up on his elbows. “You’re a good person for more than not caring if I’m gay or not.”

Kevin waits a beat, and then another, to process this.

“Really?” is all he can think to say. Connor shrugs.

“Probably,” he says. “What do I know. I’m not exactly the authority.”

“What does that mean?”

“You’re more altruistic than I am,” says Connor. “And you care about people a lot more than I do.”

“You’re incredibly likeable,” says Kevin. “And very cute.”

Connor’s whole face turns pink. Kevin finds it both fascinating and amusing to see him get so flustered.

“I think that’s enough for honesty hour, don’t you?” he says. “Do you want this back?”

He holds out the piece of unfolded paper. Kevin shakes his head.

“I usually just screw them up and throw them away anyway,” says Kevin. “You can do what you like with it.”

“Cool,” says Connor, and he does look a little bit pleased when he carefully folds it over and puts it in his pocket.

“Do you wanna hang out?” says Kevin before he’s even processed the thought.

“We are hanging out,” says Connor.

“No, like, I don’t know. Go for a walk or play a game or something.”

Connor studies him carefully.

“We could go down to the kafe,” Connor says. “If you’d like.”

“I would live there if I could,” says Kevin. He grins. Connor grins back, although he looks like he’s not quite sure why. More like an innate response to Kevin’s admittedly dazzling smile. He learned he has that effect on people when he was still in middle school.

They’ve never really hung out one on one before. Maybe by circumstance, but never actually _doing_ something together. Come to think of it, Kevin doesn’t think he’s ever outright asked somebody to spend time with him. Usually people gravitate towards him, like they’re not even realising they’re doing it until they’ve found themselves hanging off his every word and mostly doing whatever he wants them to. Not in Uganda, though. Everything in Uganda is back to front and upside down and the exact opposite to everything he’s used to. He’s a very different person now. He’s the kind of person who finds _himself_ gravitating towards somebody. He’s the kind of person who feels weirdly nervous of rejection. He’s more insecure - that much everybody gathered fairly quickly - and actually values the company of others.

“You don’t even drink coffee,” says Kevin.

“I’ll let you force me to try it,” says Connor, standing and hauling himself up, dragging Kevin with him. “God, you’re heavy.”

“We can’t all be skin and bones,” says Kevin. Connor rolls his eyes at him, but he’s smiling in a way that makes Kevin feel like everything will be alright.

He feels something suspiciously like butterflies in his chest, brushing against his ribcage and making him feel nervous and itchy inside. If Kevin feels this anxious asking a friend to hang out with him, he dreads to think how nervous he would feel if he ever actually asked somebody on a _date_.

 

***

Kevin finds himself talking less and less and writing notes or drawing a lot more.

He doesn’t ramble as much, watches his tongue, and gets into fewer fights. Who knew that having a hobby that doesn’t involve God in any way would be good for him? He’s often found himself alone for long stretches of time in Uganda, which is the exact _opposite_ of what he expected when he was paired with Arnold at the mission training centre, and he was tormented by his brain until he discovered he could silence it with his hands.

He’s never really had the opportunity - or the inclination - to express himself. He could recite words other people had written and obeyed rules that other people enforced like nobody ever could before, sure, but he never really even had the time to consider having a hobby, and especially not a creative outlet. He’s more known for his distinct _lack_ of creativity - the only class he ever got a B in was art in eighth grade, and now he’s sat here drawing plants and furniture and landscapes and little doodles of people (bless Arnold, for being a walking, talking cartoon character). He would say that he’s not quite sure how he got here, but the truth is that he’s painfully aware of every single step that led him to be sitting alone on his unsurprisingly absent mission companion’s bed in a mud hut in Uganda trying to remember what birds look like without a reference.

So now Kevin is _expressing_ himself. He assumes Connor is proud of him, because that’s exactly the kind of thing he harps on about all the time. Not that he acts it - his interactions with Kevin mostly involve a lot of eyebrows and pointed sighs.

The bird turns out okay, even if it’s not any recognisable species. Kevin finds himself smiling at his piece of paper. It feels nice to create something. It’s not good, not by a long shot, but it’s not _bad_ , and Kevin is starting to realise that’s the point. It’s about patience. Kevin can be patient. Kevin is being patient. He picks up his pencil, turns over the piece of paper, and let his hand do what it wants to. He doesn’t really pay attention to where the lines go; he’s letting things happen on their own.

 

***

Connor is ignoring him.

He’s too busy doing _something important, Elder Price_ , which has left Kevin feeling oddly lonely. It’s not like there aren’t other people to hang out with but, well, those people aren’t Connor.

He pulls some scrap paper out of his pocket - he’s started carrying them around, just in case - and clicks his pen twice to warn Connor of what’s about to happen.

He screws it up, throws it, and hits Connor square in the back of his head. He does a little victory dance, but luckily Connor doesn’t turn around quick enough to see it.

Connor unrolls the ball of paper.

“ _Pay attention to me_ ,” Connor recites.

He raises his eyebrows. Kevin grins. Connor turns back around, and promptly continues pretending he doesn’t exist.

Well. Elder Price is just going to have to up his game, isn’t he?

 

***

“I’m bored,” Michaels announces to the room.

“We’re all bored,” says Neeley. “What else is new.”

“We should play a game!” Arnold suggests.

“Like what?”

“Strip poker?”

“Elder _Price_ ,” says Elder McKinley.

“Fine. No strip poker.”

“But strip poker sounds like a great idea.”

“Shut up, Church,” says Thomas. “Maybe some of us are ashamed of our bodies.”

“No you’re not,” says Arnold. “I’ve seen you in just a towel like, twelve times!”

“Yeah, well. You’re welcome.”

The thing is, it is boring in Uganda. Sometimes it’s exciting, like that time a very small lion came wandering into Kitguli and scared the living shit out of them, or how much alcohol they drink and how many girls they can kiss now. They might not necessarily actually kiss them, but they _can_ , and that’s thrilling enough. But most of the time, they’re bored out of their skulls. They were supposed to fill their days with proselytising for twelve hours, but they don’t do _that_ anymore. Even before they came to Uganda, they spent most of their time either at school or at church or reading scripture, and now they have hours upon hours every day to do whatever they want. The issue is that their options are limited. Kevin spends a lot of time outside, either bothering Nabulungi or teaching or sometimes gardening with Connor, but it’s raining heavily and they’re confined to the hut. They can’t even read books when it gets too dark outside, because reading by candlelight sucks.

“Makes you wonder how the Victorians did it,” says Neeley, laying flat on his back on the floor.

“We could tell each other spooky stories,” says Thomas.

“Ugh,” says Kevin.

“Agreed,” says Connor.

“I still think we should play strip poker.”

“You just want to see -”

Kevin kicks Arnold as hard as he can. Church laughs as Arnold sputters indignantly.

“Fine. We could just play rummy or something.”

“With eight of us?”

“Monopoly!”

“It’s boring when there’s too many people,” says Neeley.

“Make Price sit it out,” says Davis. “He always loses anyway.”

Kevin glares at him, but knows it’s true. He’s never even come _close_ to winning, and last time he ended up tipping the whole board over and sulking for three hours, so he doesn’t really blame them for wanting to exclude him. If you look up ‘sore loser’ in the dictionary, it’s just a huge headshot of Kevin.

“That’s not really fair,” says Connor, looking at Kevin out of the corner of his eye. “He’s bored, too.”

“So keep him company,” says Church, who wiggles his eyebrows. Connor raises one in return.

“Fine,” says Connor. He shoos Michaels and Neeley off the couch and drags Kevin with him. “Go play monopoly. Have fun murdering each other over the top hat.”

Kevin and Connor lay on different ends of the couch. Kevin draws his legs up and wraps his arms around them, watching Connor from over his knees.

“That was nice of you,” says Kevin.

“Well, they shouldn’t leave you out,” says Connor, screwing up his nose at him. Kevin pulls a face back.

“It’s okay,” says Kevin, shrugging as best he can wrapped around himself. “I always end up having a tantrum anyway, right?”

Connor gives him a look that could mean anything, but probably means that Kevin is being as exasperating as he usually is.

Kevin looks over at the table, where the others are setting up the board, and definitely does _not_ feel a spark of jealousy settle somewhere in his chest. Kevin ignores his feelings. They’re usually wrong and somewhat inappropriate, anyway. Turn it off, his brain helpfully supplies. Kevin tries not to laugh at himself. Fat chance of that happening anytime soon.

“Listen,” Connor whispers, conspiratorially, and Kevin leans towards him. “Church can be cruel and likes to air people’s secrets because he thinks it’s funny when he knows something other people don’t. Thomas takes out his issues on Michaels _all_ the time. Michaels has a girlfriend back home, but he’s been flirting with Miremba for weeks. Davis is so insecure that he talks about other people behind their back to forge some kind of bond with whoever he’s bitching to. Neeley is selfish and I’ve seen him steal food right off your plate when you were too busy making heart eyes at Arnold. And Arnold -”

“Is Arnold,” Kevin finishes for him. He gives him his smallest, most private smile that he only cracks out for special occasions. “What about you?”

“What about me,” says Connor. “That’s a can of worms I don’t really want to open.”

“You have to open them sometime,” says Kevin, then wiggles his fingers. “Those worms are begging for freedom. They’re probably all working together to make some kind of worm revolution and overthrow you as their tyrannical leader.”

“Kevin,” says Connor, pinching the bridge between his eyebrows. “You’re so weird.”

“I know,” says Kevin, and thinks about the note stuffed into his pocket that says _you’re a really good friend_. “But the point remains. We all have issues, right? That’s what you’re getting at. Nobody is perfect. Not even you, Elder McKinley.”

“I think we all know what my issues are.”

Kevin stays quiet, at this, because he does know what Connor’s issues are. It’s not like he really keeps it a secret, anymore. He even caught Connor _flirting_ with some villager that Kevin never bothered to learn the name of because he spends most his time teaching and he didn’t want to get involved anyway and it had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that Kevin felt an actual, physical aversion to the sight. It’s just wrong, he tells himself, to see a fellow missionary behave like that. He doesn’t question why he didn’t find it off putting to watch Michaels flirt around, because he already knows the answer and he’s not quite ready to deal with it yet.

“Me too,” says Kevin, and he’s not sure which meaning he wants to take from that. He wonders how Connor will choose to interpret what he says and whether he’ll take it the wrong way, which is actually probably the _right_ way, and Kevin has some things he’ll need to admit to himself sooner or later, but right now those are Connor’s issues and he’s not going to take that away from him just yet.

“There’s other games we could play,” says Connor. “Just the two of us.”

Kevin thinks they’ve been playing a game for a while now. Their game just doesn’t involve boards or cards. It does, however, involve a lot of one-sided notes. So far, he’s thinks Connor is winning, because Kevin is slowly losing his mind the more he writes. At least, he thinks this is what losing his mind feels like. It’s different than the _last_ time he lost his mind, but he’s pretty certain this is also going to end up in tears and a fundamental change to his core belief system. This existential crisis won’t take him by surprise, at least. He can see this one coming from a mile off, and he thinks Connor can probably read between the lines of his notes and can see it hurtling towards the two of them as well.

“I’d like that,” says Kevin.

They don’t play anything, in the end, because Connor promptly falls asleep (he only sleeps in the day, like a cat), but Kevin has fun anyway, listening to the arguments break out at the table and watching Connor’s eyelids twitch in his sleep, mouth part open and drooling slightly. He wishes he had a camera. He doesn’t, though. He knows nobody is paying attention, so he doodles Connor in the corner of some scrap paper, and is pretty pleased with how it comes out, even if Connor’s nose looks comically big.

He captions it _7/3, sleeping beauty_ , and shoves it in Connor’s pants pocket while he’s still sleeping. He hopes that he likes it, but he knows he won’t get an answer either way. There’s something comforting, about the lack of response, knowing that he doesn’t have to worry about receiving praise or criticism. Kevin hasn’t done something without desperately seeking approval in a very long time. But he knows the _real_ reason he’s doing all of this, and it’s a particularly selfish one: he wants Elder McKinley’s attention, whatever reason he has to need it so badly, and the notes and sketches feel so weirdly intimate that he can almost half-believe they might be more than just simple friends. It means that he has something that other people don’t, it means that there’s something between them that isn’t shared with anyone else, it means that Kevin and Connor have a different relationship, an entirely different dynamic, to the one Connor and Church have or even Kevin and Arnold. He knows, inherently, after living with Connor for almost a year, that Connor hasn’t told anybody. Connor enjoys keeping secrets too much for him to share Kevin’s.

 

***

After a good long while, Kevin kind of forgets what he looks like.

It’s just - they don’t have a mirror. They don’t have a lot of things, and unfortunately for Kevin, a mirror is one of them. He has to get Arnold to obsessively check that his hair still looks perfect, but after a while he asks him less and less. He knows his skin is more tanned, and as far as he’s aware his face hasn’t burned. But if nobody told him, he’d have dirt on his face for days. He knows he’s dirtier and sweatier in Uganda than he’s ever been in his entire life, but so is everybody else. Even Connor - stupid, put together and pedantic Connor - looks dishevelled most of the time. It’s incredibly distracting. At least they threw in the uniforms, and the temple garments, Kevin thinks. Wearing white in rural Uganda was never going to end well.

Kevin, because he nothing short of vain, decides to draw himself. He’s not hurting anyone, or being creepy. He’s bored, and he can’t remember what he looks like. Or rather, he doesn’t know what he looks like _anymore_ , and he wants to find some semblance of who he was before Kevin fucked up and everything changed.

He’s tried drawing faces before - mostly Nabulungi from memory, and occasionally Arnold because he sleeps like the dead and Kevin gets bored at night, but none of them turned out any good. He likes drawing little cartoonish versions of Connor to annoy him, sure, but drawing people seriously feels like an insurmountable task that he will never achieve. The drawing turns out out of proportion and kind of like he and Nabulungi had a very odd, grown up baby, because her features are the ones he’s mostly learned to draw from, and Kevin has a one track mind and maybe one or two creative bones in his body. He almost laughs at it instead of throwing it away and sulking (which he does, of course, do, but it’s at least delayed by around ten minutes). That’s progress, he thinks, and feels so pleased with himself he actually picks up his pen.

He must have been drawing for hours by the time Connor finds him outside, because the sky is looking vaguely pink and Connor looks unamused.

“Search party is here,” he says. Kevin blinks up at him.

“I haven’t been gone that long,” says Kevin. His watch stopped working a while ago so he’s never quite sure what time it is.

“Long enough to make us worried,” says Connor, and Kevin thinks he might mean _me_ instead of _us_ , but he doesn’t press it.

“I’ve been drawing,” says Kevin.

“No shit,” says Connor. “You’re lucky I’m the one who found you. I know drawing is like, your dirty little secret or something. Let me see?”

He moves around Kevin’s back and peers down at the paper, placing his hand on Kevin’s shoulder so gently it makes him flinch.

“Is this how you see yourself?” says Connor. Kevin looks up at him, his hand on his shoulder burning through his shirt, his eyes still blue, his mouth turned down in a frown that Kevin has seen directed at himself too many times. He doesn’t know what he’s done to make Connor mad now.

“I suppose,” says Kevin. “What I remember, anyway.”

“You look so sad,” says Connor, and his fingers grip Kevin’s shirt a little.

“Oh,” says Kevin, looking at it again. He supposes he does, now he looks at it again.

“This is how you looked when I first met you,” says Connor, crouching down and resting his cheek on Kevin’s shoulder, never taking his eyes off the drawing. “Only with this ridiculous, huge smile. It was blinding. You didn’t look like - this.”

“Is it bad?”

“No,” says Connor, vehemently. “It’s wonderful. But it doesn’t look like you, anymore, maybe.”

“I haven’t seen myself in so long,” says Kevin.

“I bet that’s hard for you,” says Connor, and he doesn’t sound either judgemental or reproachful. Practical, if anything. “You hinged so much of yourself on your looks.”

“Rude,” says Kevin, and ignores the little, buzzing feeling in his chest at the implication that Connor thinks he’s good looking. He knows, objectively, that he is, but doesn’t stop Kevin from preening.

“It’s true,” says Connor, shrugging. He lifts his cheek off Kevin’s shoulder and looks at him, turning Kevin’s face with two fingers on his chin. “You look different, now. I didn’t really realise how much.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” says Connor, and Kevin definitely doesn’t see his eyes flicker down to his lips. Right?

“So do you,” says Kevin. “You have more freckles. And your hair is longer. And you’re not as uptight.”

“That is not about my looks,” says Connor, and flicks Kevin on the forehead. The corner of Kevin’s mouth turns upwards, and Connor’s mirrors it. They’re very close. Connor’s fingers are still on Kevin’s chin, and Kevin isn’t about to remind him to move them.

“It is. You - walk, differently.”

“I walk differently,” says Connor, sounding unamused. He _still_ hasn’t moved his hand, and Kevin is starting to feel incredibly gooey.

“Looser, and - happier. It’s nice.”

“You look happier, too,” says Connor. “In a different way. More genuine. And you don’t, you don’t really look anything like you do in this picture.”

He drops his fingers.

“What do I look like now, then, Elder McKinley?”

“Well,” says Connor, studying his face. If Kevin’s breath hitches when Connor brushes Kevin’s hair back off his forehead with his palm, he’ll never admit it. “Your skin is darker, for one. Your hair is lighter. You look older, in a good way. Like, your jaw is more defined, I guess. When you smile, it’s more genuine, with less teeth. Your body is - uh. Well, you’ve been working out, kinda. With all the manual labour. And it shows. I guess.”

“Right,” says Kevin, closing his mouth so he doesn’t swallow flies.

“It’s not like I’ve been _looking_ ,” says Connor, looking surprisingly calm for somebody who just said _you’ve been working out_. Christ. “You’re just sort of, hard to miss.”

“That’s what Arnold says,” says Kevin.

“Well, it’s true,” Connor says, shrugging. “You can’t help it. It’s just who you are. You aren’t exactly the type of guy who can disappear into a crowd.”

“Sometimes I want to disappear,” says Kevin.

Connor gives him the strangest look. Kevin regrets saying it. He says things without thinking about them, doesn’t consider the reaction he’ll get. He’s used to people hanging off his every word. Kevin thinks maybe people hear him, but Connor is _listening_. That’s the kind of person he is. He’s calculating in a way he would never admit, creating files upon files inside his head of each individual person. Kevin thinks that Connor does this because he’s so used to people calculating his moves, waiting for him to make a mistake, watching him warily just in case Connor’s little _issue_ created a problem. He wonders what Kevin’s file is like. He imagines it’s comically large and overflowing with - well, notes.

“You really are a very sad person,” says Connor.

“I know,” says Kevin. “I’m working on it.”

“Well,” says Connor, clasping his hands together. “I would very upset if you disappeared. Just for the record.”

Kevin doesn’t say anything, just cocks his head and watches Connor’s face process something.

“You should keep this,” says Connor, gesturing to the drawing. “Don’t screw it up. You should keep it and then when we go back to America you can look in the mirror and see how much you’ve changed.”

“Okay,” Kevin finds himself agreeing, deliberately not watching Connor’s mouth, feeling weird about how he has to stop himself from looking at his lips form words in the first place. He’s pretty certain that’s not normal thing to do. Kevin is starting to realise he does a lot of things that aren’t necessarily normal things to do. “Would you like me to draw you?”

He also says this without thinking. Kevin really, really needs to start thinking about things before he says them. He should have learned his lesson by now. He hasn’t, though, if the look on Connor’s face is anything to go by.

“You already did,” says Connor. “You’ve done loads of little doodles.”

“Oh,” says Kevin. “They’re stupid. I’m getting much better. I could draw you, properly, and then you could see what you look like now.”

“I’m not going to pose for you,” says Connor, looking incredibly awkward. “I don’t really like being scrutinised.”

“It’s not that,” says Kevin, shaking his head. He feels his hair fall into his eyes and doesn’t miss the way Connor swallows. “It mostly makes me think about how everything is actually quite nice. You know, like realising just how many leaves are on a tree. Or how many colours there are. You see things you didn’t see before.”

“You know me pretty well,” says Connor. “I doubt there’s anything else to see.”

“Liar,” says Kevin.

Connor sighs.

“Okay,” he says. “You have permission to draw me. But don’t make it weird, Kevin.”

Kevin snorts. He does nothing but.

“You already know I can’t do that,” he says. Connor smiles, properly smiles at him, and Kevin feels his stomach swoop alarmingly. “Just stay there. Keep talking to me. Tell me about your day.”

He picks up his pen.

“My day was so boring,” says Connor. “And then Thomas and Church got into another fight. Honestly, they’re like school children.”

Kevin works slowly and meticulously, and Connor isn’t usually much of a talker but there seems to be something about Kevin that makes words tumble out of his mouth and sometimes Kevin can’t actually shut him up. He draws and draws and draws and the more defined his features get, the more Kevin analyses the lines of his face and how shadows curl around his nose and his eyes - and, well. Kevin’s little problem might actually be much, much larger than he first anticipated.

 

***

Connor precariously arranges two cards on top of their ever-growing pyramid.

“If you knock this over,” says Connor. “I will kill you.”

“No you won’t,” says Kevin, slowly sliding another card over to Connor. “You’d miss me too much.”

“Doubtful,” says Connor, before flashing his most crooked smile at Kevin. It makes his stupid knees feel weak. He wonders if Connor is doing it on purpose. If he knew he could turn Connor into jelly with a quick grin, he’d be smiling at him like an idiot all the time.

Sometimes the middle of the night is Kevin’s least favourite time of day, but somehow, as soon as Connor joins him, it’s his favourite. They usually they bicker and fight and piss each other off, in the daytime, but it’s quiet and peaceful at the witching hour. Kevin props two cards on top of a dubious looking structure in silence. It’s been hot out, but if you sit underneath the window you stay in a cool patch of shade all day. Connor’s been sunburned for the better part of a year, and even though he’s all peeling and gross looking, Kevin _still_ finds himself compelled to study him wherever he goes, compiling a little mental list of _that smile means he’s annoyed but doesn’t want you to know about it and his jaw twitches when he lies._

“What do you miss the most? About home?”

“Oh,” says Kevin, aimlessly shuffling a deck while Connor finishes carefully placing another two cards. “I don’t know. I guess my sisters.”

Connor snorts.

“I don’t miss mine,” he says. “You go.”

Kevin gets to work, picking two cards and bending them inwards slightly, like his Dad showed him how to do a very long time ago.

“I miss showering,” says Kevin. “And candy.”

“Do you have a sweet tooth?” says Connor, sounding surprised.

“Kind of,” says Kevin. “It’s weird, right? Because I feel like I know you better than anyone, other than Arnold, obviously. But like, I don’t know what your favourite ice cream flavour is.”

“It’s rum raisin,” says Connor, watching him carefully. Kevin wrinkles his nose.

“Really?”

“Really,” says Connor. “And yours must be vanilla. Tell me I’m wrong.”

“With blue raspberry syrup,” Kevin tells him, happily, passing over more cards.

“I’ll never know anybody as well as seven boys I lived in a hut with in Uganda.”

“There’s so much we probably don’t know,” says Kevin. “Like, do you prefer to have your windows open or the air conditioning on in summer? I may never know.”

“We’ll just learn all that stuff back in America,” says Connor, shrugging. “You go.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” says Connor. “Obviously.”

Kevin slips his hand into his pocket, and takes out a card he’s been saving for a special occasion.

“Kevin,” says Connor, inspecting the card in front of him dubiously. “Why are there little arms and musical notes on this card?”

“It’s a dancing queen,” says Kevin.

Connor’s shoulders shake before the laugh comes out of his mouth. Kevin can’t stop watching him, fascinated, like he’s an animal in its natural habitat. He laughs so hard that the house of cards gets knocked down, and his face falls, but there’s still a smile playing on his lips and he still has the queen in his hand.

“Oh no,” says Connor.

“It’s okay,” says Kevin. “We can build it again.”

“But we spent so long on it,” Connor says, but he doesn’t look too bothered, because his eyes keep flitting between the queen and Kevin, the pile on the floor almost forgotten.

“We have all the time in the world,” says Kevin.

Connor looks at Kevin for a long, agonising second.

“Dancing queen,” Connor tells his card. “Me too.”

He slips the queen into his pocket, and Kevin feels childish glee that he’s keeping it. Maybe he’s kept all of them. Kevin was semi-convinced he’d thrown away the hundred or so notes Kevin has given Connor at this point. Connor isn’t a particularly sentimental person, but he’d like to believe that the weird notes he’s been writing mean at least half as much to Connor as they do to Kevin. He would’ve told him to stop, if he’d wanted to. But he hasn’t. He doesn’t want him to. Kevin should probably listen to Arnold, and stop doing what he’s doing before he’s in too deep, but then he watches Connor hum to himself as he tidies the pile of cards and start building again and feels his heart ache. He’s already in so deep he’s practically drowning.

 

***

Kampala is busier than usual today. Kevin and Connor keep getting pressed uncomfortably close together at the market, and eventually Connor just gives up and grabs his wrist, leading him around like a dog. After a while, Connor gives up on _that_ , too, and threads their fingers together. Kevin’s heart hammers so hard in his chest he worries he’s going to fracture a rib. Gotswana is a great doctor, but even he can’t treat lovesickness.

They pick up rice, plantains, groundnuts and beans. They buy more candles and matches, and Kevin buys Nabulungi a tacky shell necklace because she loves anything Kevin brings back, no matter how awful and cheap it is.

“You might like these,” says Connor, as Kevin is handing over the money for the necklace. Kevin turns and finds a stall filled with colour; reds and pinks and purples stand out amongst greens and blues. “For class, I mean.”

“Right,” says Kevin. “For class.”

He’s a little overwhelmed at the options. It’s not like he has a lot of money. Connor helps him pick out a small, modest set of paints and an extensive set of crayons. He figures he can start small, with colour, maybe the petals on the flowers he likes from outside the hut that Elder McKinley waters every day.

The shopkeeper is giving Kevin a look. Kevin knows that look. Kevin has been on the receiving end of that very specific look on more than one occasion. It makes him feel incredibly uncomfortable and he squeezes Connor’s hand under the table where she can’t see. God, can’t Kevin go _anywhere_ without being the centre of attention?

“It’s selfish to buy these,” he says. Connor shrugs.

“You spent like, three days being selfish and you’ve been nothing but altruistic since. Let yourself live a little, Kevin Price. You can spend like, three dollars on paint.”

“But -”

“Shut up,” says Connor, shoving the money into the shopkeeper’s hands.

“He is very _mtanashati_ ,” she tells Connor. Connor glances up at Kevin, who has become fascinated by his own shoes. “Yes, very handsome.”

“Don’t tell him that,” Connor says. He doesn’t sound very amused. Kevin is surprised - usually Connor takes every embarrassing opportunity to make fun of him. “You’ll feed his ego.”

“ _Kuchumbiana_?”

Kevin looks helplessly over at Connor, who’s Swahili is much better than his, and he looks as unamused as he sounds.

“She wants you to ask her out,” says Connor.

“Oh,” says Kevin. “No, no thank you.”

“Half price,” she says. “Half price if you take me on a _kuchumbiana_.”

“I’ll pay in full,” says Kevin, as harshly as he can manage when he feels like he’s being strangled. He grabs Connor’s hand and pulls him by the wrist, only turning around to see the shopkeeper happily wave goodbye.

“I can’t take you anywhere,” says Connor. “You seem much less pleased than I would have imagined.”

“Yeah, well,” says Kevin. “I told you. Sometimes I want to disappear.”

“This is such a non-problem,” says Connor, and Kevin can _feel_ him rolling his eyes. “Most people would kill to look like you.”

“Most people are stupid,” says Kevin, aware that he’s being hypocritical.

“Are you okay?” Connor asks, and it’s the last thing he expected Connor to say. It makes him stop in his tracks and actually look at him. Connor’s head is cocked to the side like a confused puppy and Kevin wants to pinch his cheeks and never let go.

“Yeah,” he says, even though he kind of isn’t. “Are you?”

“You’ve never talked about it,” says Connor, instead of answering. “When people like you. That’s like the eleventh girl I’ve seen come on to you.”

Kevin shrugs.

“You get used to it,” is all he can manage to say. He doesn’t really want to talk about how it makes him feel kind of gross. He _knows_ he’s good looking. He’s stupid, but he’s not _blind_ , and he does have ears that can hear people cooing when he walks by. Even before, he never really liked that kind of attention. He’s found that looking the way he does makes it difficult to build honest relationships with people. They see a shiny outside and don’t care about the black hole in the middle. He doesn’t really blame them.

“Do you not like it? You love being the centre of attention.”

“Not really. Not anymore,” says Kevin. “And not that kind of attention, anyway.”

Connor hums, and moves over to look in a shop window, but he’s still staring at Kevin and Kevin can’t help but stare back, his hand still on Connor’s wrist.

“I assumed you’d like, never been single,” says Connor. “Or had a girlfriend back home, or something. Prom King and Queen, you know?”

“Nope,” says Kevin. “Not really my thing.”

He wants to say, _it wouldn’t bother me if it was you fawning over me_ but he doesn’t because they’re in public and he’s really not sure where Connor stands on the issue. This conversation feels like two steps back.

“Even I’ve been on a date,” says Connor. “Her name was Lucy Harrison. We went to prom together. Good Mormon girl, you know. There’s still a picture of us on the mantelpiece.”

Kevin decides not to comment on that, tucking it away to think about later, probably, when he spends another sleepless night trying to figure out Elder McKinley.

“I’m not opposed to it,” says Kevin, carefully. “Just never really met the right person before.”

“Such a romantic,” says Connor. “Waiting until marriage?”

“Not anymore,” says Kevin.

Connor doesn’t say anything, just turns his head to look in the window. Kevin lets his shoulders relax and his hand to let go of Connor’s wrist. Connor grabs his hand before it falls completely away, and without looking at him, threads their fingers together again.

“You’ll meet the right person one day,” says Connor, and Kevin thinks, _I already have, you oblivious, beautiful idiot_.

“I’m being patient,” says Kevin. “Letting things happen on their own.”

Connor squeezes his hand.

“I’m excited to see what you do with colour,” says Connor. “Are you gonna paint?”

“I guess so,” says Kevin, nudging Connor’s side with his elbow as a token of immense gratitude for changing the subject. “What should I paint?”

“Whatever you want,” says Connor. “That’s what you did for us. We can do whatever we want, now.”

 _I want you_ , Kevin thinks. A receipt burns a hole in his pocket that’s begging for those words to be written on it.

 

***

Kevin has a student who he doesn’t want to say is a _problem_ , per say, but he’s definitely a handful. Today they’re drawing butterflies.

“Zilaba,” Kevin sighs, peering over the top of his head. “That doesn’t look very much like a butterfly.”

“Butterflies are _mjinga_ ,” Zilaba mutters.

“They are stupid,” Kevin agrees, nodding sagely. “I hate bugs. Even butterflies. Especially butterflies, actually, they’re too quick and get in your face and they’re all flappy, it’s horrible.”

Zilaba gives him a blank stare. Kevin finds the kids do this a lot. He usually just talks and talks and hopes some of it goes in. They do pretty well on the little, five-question tests he sets them every other Sunday, so he assumes he’s doing a good job. He’s a teacher, sure, but he’s mostly an entertainer.

“You scribbled all over it,” Kevin says. “Was there something wrong?”

“ _Mjinga_ ,” Zilba says.

“It looked stupid?”

Zilaba nods. He looks an awful lot like he’s about to cry. Luckily Kevin has first-hand knowledge of being on the verge of tears.

“That’s okay,” he says. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Really?”

“Of course not,” says Kevin. “It’s only a drawing. It’s just for fun.”

“I hate it,” Zilaba says, glaring at the drawing. “I am no good.”

Kevin cocks his head to the side in a very Elder McKinley way.

“It’s all about practice,” he says. “Who else doesn’t like their butterfly?”

Four little pudgy hands shoot up in the air.

“Okay,” says Kevin. “Tear them up.”

The kids look at each other, and then back at Kevin, with wide, confused eyes.

“No, seriously,” says Kevin. He takes his own - admittedly kind of alright looking - drawing, and rips it down the middle. “It feels really good. Try it.”

Zilaba tears his up with gusto four, five times. They drift down onto the ground like snow. The others follow suit. Nantumbwe starts laughing and Zilaba actually smiles.

“Okay,” says Kevin. “Do you still feel angry? Or sad?”

“No,” says Zilaba, slowly, looking at Kevin suspiciously. Kevin hands him another piece of paper.

“Use different colours. Or a different shape.”

Zilaba nods sagely and grabs the green and purple crayons. He looks at Kevin expectantly.

“Now try again,” says Kevin.

 

***

Kevin writes another note. He has no idea how many he’s written. He never really kept count, anyway. He didn’t know, going in, just how much of a problem this would become.

_I think you’re the only person who understands me and sometimes I get the feeling even you don’t want to._

He keeps this one to himself, hidden inside his pillowcase so it crinkles when he rolls over. He dithers over whether or not he should give it to Connor for days. He doesn’t, in the end. Some things, he thinks, are probably better left unsaid. Or unwritten, anyway.

 

***

Kevin and Arnold take a trip to Kampala, and come back with a camera for Nabulungi’s birthday.

They all pitch in, in the end, and Nabulungi is so excited about it she kisses and each and every one of them on the mouth. She kisses Kevin twice, and he definitely doesn’t look at Connor looking at him afterwards. Only he does, because he’s Kevin, and he’s Connor. They make eye contact over Nabulungi’s shoulder and Kevin feels something possess him as he watches Connor’s eyes grow darker when she throws her arms around him. Something new, something he’s never felt before, and he’s both terrified and exhilarated by it.

Kevin, to nobody’s surprise, gets drunk. But it’s okay, because so does everybody else, so Kevin doesn’t think anybody is going to notice or care if he follows Connor around like a puppy all night. Connor mostly gives him amused looks, occasionally ruffling his hair or touching his arm, and Kevin wishes that were enough but it isn’t. It isn’t at all. He wonders how to explain this one in note-form, but he doesn’t think it’ll fit. Words will probably never be enough. But it’s okay, because Nabulungi has a camera, and a picture is worth a thousand words.

“You know,” says Neeley, appearing behind him and making him jump. “You should probably just take a photo. Like, instead of staring.”

“I’m not staring,” says Kevin, without taking his eyes off Connor laughing about something with Kimbay.

“You’re so dumb,” says Neeley. “And drunk. Go get him, tiger.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” says Kevin. “And besides I don’t think he would appreciate it.”

“I think he almost definitely would,” says Neeley.

“Not yet,” says Kevin. He’s been practicing being patient. He wonders how thin it’ll run before he opens his mouth and tells Connor a hundred things he should have written down instead.

The next day there are so many polaroids that Kevin and Michaels painstakingly pin over the chalkboard they used to mark off how many baptisms they did - or more accurately, did not - achieve. They make Kevin feel warm when he looks at them all; Thomas and Church with their arms around each other, the eight of them squished into one frame pulling faces, Arnold hugging Nabulungi from behind, his glasses comically peering over her shoulder. There’s one, though, that Kevin slips into his pocket. It’s Kevin and Connor, pressed close together, and Kevin is giving him one of his now-trademark drunk, wet kisses on his cheek. Connor’s face is screwed up and one eye is shut, looking disgruntled, but with the faint echo of a smile somewhere on his face. It burns a hole in his pocket all day long.

 _Uganda_ , he writes on the back of it, and then the year. He wants to put a caption, but it doesn’t really need it and he can’t think of anything that doesn’t give away all of Kevin’s feelings in their entirety anyway. He slips it under Connor’s door when Church is in the bathroom, and he sort of half regrets giving it away but he has a _point_ to make. So he makes it. Here, the picture declares. Look at us. _Do you see what I see?_

 

***

“What do you mean, you’ve never made a blanket fort?”

Arnold looks downright scandalised at the prospect.

“My sisters made them,” says Kevin. “But no boys allowed.”

“Didn’t you have like, friends?”

Kevin gives Arnold a look. He already knows that he didn’t. Kevin might have been popular in the Mormon world, but at school, he was kind of weird and a bit of a loser. Kevin learned very quickly that being a Mormon was supposed to be something he was ashamed of, but it’s what his life revolved around, and he decided early on that he should pick the church over friends. He sorely regrets that now. He’s just really lucky that when he finally found real, actual, I-can-talk-to-you-about-anything friends, they turned out to be the best ones in the world.

“I have never made one either,” Nabulungi says, lounging on Arnold’s bed. “You should show us.”

“Okay!” says Arnold, looking the most excited he’s looked since - well, probably since this morning, when Kevin had serious bed hair and Arnold thought it was the funniest thing he’d ever seen. He gets to work and builds half a blanket fort alarmingly quickly.

“You’re very efficient when you actually concentrate on something,” Kevin remarks, kind of impressed. “For once.”

“Don’t be rude to our prophet,” says Nabulungi, grinning at Kevin, then looking over at Arnold with heart-eyes. He wonders what people see when he looks at Connor. He hopes he’s nowhere near as obvious about it, but knows that he probably is. One of Kevin’s many downfalls is that he can’t keep a single emotion he feels inside where it belongs.

“We need more blankets,” says Arnold, looking like he’s about to cry. “There’s not enough room!”

“Calm down,” says Kevin, rubbing a soothing hand on Arnold’s back, the way Arnold does for him every other day. “I’ll go get one.”

Kevin knows, because he’s a creepy, creepy stalker who learned Connor’s meticulous schedule by heart, that he’s out pretending to proselytise but is really just gossiping with Middala and Kalimba, because it’s a Saturday afternoon. So he sneaks into his room, tears a piece of paper out of the back of Connor’s long-abandoned District Leader journal, and writes in his neatest handwriting, _stole your blanket. if you want it, come get it_. He leaves it on Connor’s pillow.

Arnold makes grabby hands when he returns, and finishes the fort. The floor is hard and uncomfortable, and their sad, thin pillows don’t do much to help. Nabulungi decides to use Kevin’s lap as a head rest instead. It’s not like he minds. Arnold is watching them, and he grins when he catches Kevin’s eyes.

“Whose blanket is this, exactly?”

“Shut up,” says Kevin, mildly, stroking back Nabulungi’s hair.

“I think he likes you,” says Nabulungi. Kevin feels himself heat up from the inside. He’s both exhilarated by and bored of feeling like a schoolgirl with a crush. He kind of _is_ , is the thing, only he’s a twenty year old ex-Mormon boy with a crush, and apparently, that’s not so different. Instead of the cutest boy in school, he decided to pick the weirdest looking of them all - not in a _bad_ way, just his nose is long and front teeth are a little crooked, his arms and legs don’t always look like they fit on his body right, and sometimes the sun makes Connor more freckle than skin - who’s pedantic and closed off and kind of mean. At least he’s not doodling _Kevin McKinley_ surrounded by hearts in his diary, he thinks. He very carefully doesn’t think about how he just doodles little pictures of him instead.

“I’m pathetic,” Kevin tells her, morosely. Arnold snorts, then giggles a little at the sound he just made. It makes Kevin smile, albeit briefly, before he spirals into another, larger pit of despair than the one he usually resides in. He waits for a response, but neither of them seem to want to contradict him. He doesn’t blame them. He _is_ pathetic. “Do you really think he likes me?”

“Of course he does,” says Arnold. Nabulungi nods her head vigorously. He appreciates her enthusiasm.

“I can’t believe I’m in a blanket fort talking about boys,” says Kevin, glumly.

“Don’t look so sad,” says Nabulungi.

“Yeah,” says Arnold. “Nobody can be sad in a blanket fort. It’s like, the law, or something.”

“I’m always sad,” says Kevin, and it’s meant to be a joke but it’s not very funny.

“You are sad because you are in love,” says Nabulungi.

“Maybe not _love_ ,” says Kevin. That would be ridiculous. Just because he has one little embarrassing and all consuming crush that he literally can’t stop himself from thinking about at any unexpected moment of the day doesn’t mean he’s in love with the guy. He’s just nice to look at and nice to be around and Kevin wants all of his attention all the time. “Can we talk about something else?”

“Absolutely not,” says Arnold. “I love gossip.”

“Michaels slept over at Miremba’s last night,” says Kevin. “And Church and Thomas aren’t talking to each other, but they won’t say what happened.”

“Eh,” says Arnold. “Your crush is more entertaining.”

Kevin sighs. He both wants to never talk about this, and stand on top of the roof and declare to everybody that he would really like to have a lengthy discussion of how Connor’s hair looks even more red in the sunlight and how cute the freckles on his nose are and how he can be so bitchy and cold but Kevin still really likes him anyway.

Kevin lets himself drift off to the sounds of Arnold and Nabulungi having an impassioned conversation about him. Eventually the door flings open, making Kevin jump. Connor stands there, with his hand on one hip and his head cocked to the side in that way that he does. Kevin’s heart flutters a little in his chest.

“Hi,” Connor says, ridiculously. His hair looks wet and Kevin assumes it started raining. He has no idea how they’ve been in the fort, but Kevin is more than half-way asleep. “My blanket.”

“Right here!” says Arnold, happily, pointing upwards.

“You made a fort?” says Connor, and he says it such a small, oddly sad way that Kevin lifts his head up and gestures Connor towards him with it. Nabulungi rolls off Kevin and sits upright, resting her head on Arnold, and Kevin watches her watch Connor sit down next to him. She catches his eye, and Kevin looks away before he can read the expression on her face. “This is - very sweet.”

“We have been talking about boys,” says Nabulungi, grinning at Connor. Connor looks like he’s about to choke. “They say it is like a sleepover.”

Kevin can feel Connor’s eyes on him, and he looks at _anything_ other than back at him, and yet somehow Connor drifts into his line of vision anyway. His mouth is open and his eyes are wide and Kevin kind of really wants to bite his lip. He looks, for some strange reason, a little pissed off.

“Yeah?” says Connor, in what Kevin thinks _he_ thinks is his airest voice, but it comes out very strangled. “Anyone you like?”

Kevin blushes. He doesn’t mean to, but he does, and now it’s _out there_ , and Kevin is getting better at lying but he can’t cover up the pink stains on his cheeks with simple words. If you gave him a pen and paper, he might be fine. But he doesn’t, and he’s not fine at all.

“Um,” says Kevin, acutely aware of Nabulungi and Arnold. They’re probably dying on the inside. At least, if anything, Kevin and Connor are giving them a good show. “Yeah - yes. You could say that.”

“Cool,” says Connor. Kevin really does look at Connor this time, and he really, _really_ regrets it, because then he says, “me too,” and Kevin feels a lot like he’s about to be sick.

Connor gives him the strangest look for a good twenty minutes, all through Arnold wittering through some story that was clearly half-fabricated, which is the only half Kevin actually listens to. Nabulungi looks like she’s fallen asleep mid-rant and she looks so incredibly peaceful, her head on Arnold’s shoulders, perfectly still throughout all his exaggerated mannerisms and over-excitement, that Kevin feels a little bit calmer, too. The sound of his heartbeat thudding incessantly in his head has reduced to a dull ache.

It takes Kevin long after Arnold has fallen asleep, too, before he _gets_ it. Kevin and Connor are still up, because neither of them ever sleep, and the blanket fort is a lot nicer than the sofa, even if the floor is hard beneath them.

“You didn’t know I like guys too,” says Kevin, all of sudden. Connor doesn’t flinch, just rubs a weary hand over tired eyes.

“I think it would have been pertinent information,” says Connor. “ _Before_ I had my gay crisis. Do you have _any_ idea what it felt like? Did you just what, let me believe I was alone in this, let me feel like I was just some - some - freak, or -”

Kevin grabs his wrist as Connor gesticulates.

“Connor,” he says, as seriously as he can. “I didn’t know. Before.”

“Look,” says Connor. “I know you keep a lot of secrets. And that’s fine. That’s like, your thing now, I guess. But I thought I was -”

He doesn’t finish. It doesn’t really matter, because Kevin knows him better than anybody in the whole entire world - probably including Arnold, who to this day remains a mystery to Kevin - and he knows exactly what Connor was going to say.

“You’re very important to me,” says Kevin, instead of _you’re special_ and _please kiss me_. “I wouldn’t. You’re - you’re different. Okay?”

“No, it’s not okay,” says Connor, and now his face has turned from entirely alien to something completely, almost comfortably familiar. Connor is angry at him. “You really are as much of a dick as everybody has been telling me you are.”

“That’s - actually really mean.”

“Yeah, well,” says Connor. He averts his gaze from Kevin’s, but that doesn’t stop Kevin from staring at him. “When you say too, do you mean that you’re - _gay_ , also, or... you know?”

“I don’t know,” says Kevin, almost - but absolutely _not_ \- praying that Arnold and Nabulungi are actually asleep. “I never really thought about it either way. I think maybe both. Or neither. I haven’t quite - decided, yet.”

“It’s not something you choose,” says Connor, sounding positively venomous.

“I know, I didn’t mean - I’ve never talked about it?”

“Maybe you should’ve written it down.”

Kevin has never, ever seen Connor like this before. He didn’t even know this side of Connor was an option. He wilts.

“Connor,” says Kevin, with as much passion in his voice as he can muster when he’s being stared down. “It never occurred to me, before I came here to think - _thoughts_. And then I came to Uganda, and I did a lot of thinking, and a lot of thoughts happened to be centred around this one person. So I don’t know if I like boys or girls or both or neither. I just know I really, really like this guy.”

“You are the most surprising person I’ve ever met,” says Connor. Kevin matches his gaze evenly. There’s no way that Connor doesn’t know that Kevin is talking about him. He’s not stupid. He’s actually very quick, and smart, and wonderful in every way. “This guy.”

“Yeah,” says Kevin.

“He must be pretty special.”

“He is,” says Kevin.

“You’re Kevin _Price_ ,” says Connor, looking at him imploringly now, with a lot less edge. If Kevin didn’t know any better, he’d say Connor looked a little desperate.

“I’m not all that,” says Kevin. He shuffles a little closer to Connor, as close as he’s allowed. Connor doesn’t back away, but he does watch him, warily, as if Kevin is about to strike at any moment. “I thought he liked me back, but now I’m not so sure.”

“I think he probably does,” says Connor. “He probably thinks you’re kind of the most ridiculously beautiful guy he’s ever met.”

Kevin, for some absurd reason, feels like he’s about to cry at any moment. He has to bite the bullet. He has to do this.

“Oh,” says Kevin. “Look, Connor -”

“It’s all about patience, right?” Elder McKinley interrupts him. “Letting things happen on their own.”

“Right,” says Kevin. He feels like his lungs have collapsed in on himself with the force of crushing disappointment.

“I am so mad at you,” says Connor, and he looks like he really means it. “I don’t know if I’ve ever been this angry at anyone.”

“I kind of thought you already knew,” Kevin says.

He doesn’t want a response, but he’s Elder McKinley, and he has an answer for everything.

“Sometimes,” he says. “You need to actually talk to me. With words. Out loud.”

That’s fair. Kevin doesn’t really have a response that doesn’t sound like an excuse.

“Do you hate me?” he asks instead of answering.

“Yes,” says Connor. Kevin flinches, moving to draw himself back. Connor grabs his upper arm to keep him there. Kevin stops breathing, the grip on his arm dizzying and electric and filled with an intensity that Kevin didn’t even know existed. “Kind of. But I also kind of love you. I don’t know.”

“Yeah,” says Kevin. “The feeling’s mutual.”

Connor doesn’t let go of Kevin’s arm, but his grip does loosen, slightly. Connor watches his own hand for a while, but doesn’t move it.

“You can’t make anything simple,” says Connor. “Everything about you is confusing and ridiculous. And you’re _such_ a drama queen. You’re a soppy idiot. You’re entirely self-aware in the most oblivious way. You’re really something, Kevin Price.”

Kevin doesn’t say anything. Connor drops his hand.

“You’re also gay,” says Connor.

“Maybe,” says Kevin. “I haven’t quite figured it out yet.”

“Well,” says Connor, in his diplomatic I-don’t-want-to-feel-feelings voice. “I’m so angry with you I feel like I can’t even look at you. But you were also the only person there for me. So. If you need any help figuring it out, I’m still going to be on the couch waiting for you in the middle of the night. I’m still going to coo over your sketches and talk about how you’re improving. I’ll still be your friend.”

Kevin thinks, without warning, about exactly how Connor can help him _figure it out_. It’s entirely inappropriate, but Kevin’s brain is always doing things that Kevin doesn’t understand. He thinks about the skin on Connor’s neck that he wants to graze with his teeth, and how his bottom lip would look all puffy after they’d kissed for hours, and his hand sliding up his shirt, how Connor would make little noises when his hand wandered down over his stomach and -

“Thank you,” Kevin says.

“Just - not now.”

“Okay,” says Kevin.

It will be okay, he thinks. Nabulungi said it would be, and she’s never broken a promise before. Even if Connor is looking at him like he wants to get as far away from him as possible, even if he looks horrified and hurt and a thousand other things that Kevin knows are directly caused by him being an idiot, it’ll work out in the end. Patience, he says to himself. He just has to let things happen on their own.

 

***

Kevin can’t sleep.

His emotions- which, most of the time, are somebody else’s problem - are keeping him awake with the sheer intensity of them.

He’s tries writing a note. He tries writing several notes, actually, but sometimes it’s harder to say things when you really think about them. All he needs to write is _I’m sorry_ , but he doesn’t, because it doesn’t feel like enough. It’s feels disingenuous and impersonal, even though the notes are the most personal Kevin has ever gotten since - well, since forever, now that he thinks about it. But Connor doesn’t want the notes, he reminds himself. That’s what this whole argument was about, right? Connor doesn’t care about how much of himself he’s exposed through tiny, folded over pieces of paper. He feels a compulsion, like his hand isn’t his own, to grab his pen and write something _incredibly_ stupid that his mouth will never be able to say out loud.

He gives up, eventually, because Connor always joked about Kevin’s boundaries and he’s only just beginning to realise that Connor has never been joking at all. He stumbles his way out of his dark room, careful not to wake Arnold, to go make himself a coffee. It definitely has nothing to do with Kevin’s need to find out if Connor is unable to sleep, too. It’s clearly not because Kevin has gotten so used to hanging out with Connor in the middle of the night that he feels weirder in his bedroom after lights out than the living area.

He’s about halfway down the hallway when he hears something crash in the kitchen, and a stifled yelp. Kevin sighs, somewhat relieved, but mostly resigned to the fact that he can’t help himself, he’s always going to crawl to Connor wherever he goes, desperate for his company and affection. He can’t _stand_ Connor being mad at him. It makes his skin buzz impatiently, just below the surface.

“Connor?”

Kevin lights the two candles for the kitchen and sees Connor’s silhouette, perched over by the sink. He wanders over, slowly, squinting to see what Connor is doing on the floor.

“Hi,” says Connor, when Kevin gets close enough. He looks a lot like he’s been crying. “I smashed a mug.”

Kevin looks down and sees the shattered remnants on the floor, and Connor’s hand dripping blood a little onto the ceramic.

“It was your favourite one,” says Connor, and he looks up at Kevin with these big, blue, watery eyes and Kevin just wants to - he just _wants_ , so badly, that he can’t look away.

“Your hand,” says Kevin, instead of _I’m sorry_ and _are you okay_? “It’s bleeding.”

“Oh,” says Connor, splaying his hand face up to see the damage. “Ouch.”

“You’re not usually this clumsy,” says Kevin, dragging Connor up by wrapping his hand around his forearm. He dips a dishrag in the leftover water from this evening and starts to carefully wipe the blood off Connor’s palm and where it’s dripped down onto his wrist. They’re standing uncomfortably close, and he’s breathing in what’s Connor’s breathing out. Connor doesn’t look at Kevin. Kevin doesn’t blame him. “Nightmares?”

Connor doesn’t say anything, just watches Kevin wash his hand. Kevin swallows. He hates the silence.

“The notes,” says Connor, when Kevin throws the dishrag in the trash.

Kevin freezes. This has been a long time coming, he supposes.

“Yeah,” says Kevin, not quite a question, not quite a confirmation.

Connor does look at him, then, with what Connor must think is an unreadable expression, but his eyes are brighter than usual, and puffy, and one corner of his mouth is curled up and the other one is slightly down, and he looks at Kevin like he’s the first person he’s ever laid eyes on.

“You can actually talk to me, if you wanted,” says Connor, shifting on his feet.

“I know,” says Kevin, because he does.

“Okay,” says Connor, shrugging. Then he flashes him his quickest grin, as if nothing had happened, and starts to pick the pieces of the mug off the floor.

“You owe me a new one,” says Kevin, nudging Connor’s shoulder near the floor with his foot. “Are you still mad at me?”

“Kevin,” says Connor. “I’m always mad at you.”

Kevin pauses, unsure what to do next. He feels lost, in the darkness, with nothing but him and his brain and Connor and Connor’s proximity and how there’s no one around, there’s no people, for once, and he could just - he could _just_ -

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“No you’re not,” says Connor. He sighs. “It’s much harder than I anticipated to _stay_ angry at you.”

Kevin thinks about how he could give Connor good reason to be angry at him, if he wanted. They’re alone and it’s dark and Kevin is emotional, tensions are high and Connor is looking at him in that way that he’s only done a handful of times and Kevin wants to push him against the wall and shut his brain up with Connor’s tongue.

“I’m going to go to bed,” says Connor, before Kevin can think of a response that doesn’t end in Kevin desperately trying to stick his hand down Connor’s pants, and leaves Kevin alone to clean up the broken mug off the floor.

After he’s crawled back under his thin sheets and continues to be serenaded with Arnold’s snores, he sketches a broken mug with a little symbol of Mickey Mouse split four ways in the dim candlelight by his bed. He’s pretty proud of how the shading comes out, if he does say so himself. He captions the sketch _10/28, no use crying over spilled coffee_. He folds it over and puts it inside Connor’s third-hand copy of _The Secret Garden_ that Church bought for him as a present the last time he went to the market.

Connor, as always, doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t think that Connor finds it for a couple of days, because he spends that time either giving Kevin weird, dark looks across the room or simply not looking at him at all. After a few more sleepless nights - where Connor, deliberately, does not spend the twilight hours on the sagging couch with him - he pushes Kevin’s head down affectionately in the morning, steals Kevin’s spoon out of his hand and eats a hearty portion of Kevin’s matoke. He grins at him, crooked and impish. Kevin smiles back, stupidly and slowly, and flicks some porridge at him off his spoon.

When he remembers that he’s in a room full of people, he looks up and finds twin, amused expressions on Arnold and Church’s faces. He pulls a face back - sticking his tongue out at Arnold, who blows a raspberry in retaliation - and turns his attention to Thomas on the other side of him, who is recounting a story about his sister’s disastrous dance recital. He pretends he can’t feel Connor’s hand steadying his twitching knee, wandering towards in the inside of his thigh.

 

***

Kevin leaves a special note for Connor on Christmas eve.

He tries to slip it into Connor’s pocket when he’s not looking, but he’s too slow and Connor is too quick.

“Stop trying to grope me,” says Connor, turning around with a glare already plastered on his face.

“Never,” says Kevin, and moves to hide the note in his hand. Connor grabs it, first, and unravels it.

“What did Adam say before Christmas?”

Kevin flushes pink.

“I don’t know,” says Kevin, even though he wrote the note in the first place. “What did Adam say before Christmas, Elder McKinley?”

Connor turns the note over.

“It’s Christmas, Eve.”

Connor doesn’t laugh like Kevin hoped he would, but he does give Kevin a weird, unreadable look that Kevin has never seen before, and he opens his mouth like he’s going to say something - and dear _God_ , Connor McKinley, they’re surrounded by their odd, misshapen family and if they’re going to talk about this it better be in private - but the words never come out.

“What have you got there?” says Arnold. Kevin turns from pink to blue. _Oh no_ , he thinks. Anyone but Arnold.

“A joke,” says Connor. “It’s not very funny.”

“Is it one of Kevin’s? His jokes suck.”

Kevin turns around and leaves, as quickly as he can, because this conversation is not going to work out for him whatever direction it goes in. He heads back to his room, because there are too many people outside, and he wants to sulk. He shouldn’t, but he wants to, because he feels _stupid_ and now Arnold and Connor are probably talking about the whole note thing and everything is ruined. Why did Kevin even have to start this whole mess in the first place? He can’t just stop now, he’s in too deep, and stopping would be even more suspicious than carrying on.

He paces around the room three, four times, before he sits down on the edge of his bed. He can feel his knuckles turning white. This is stupid, Kevin is stupid, and every single stupid note was a bad idea.

“Knock knock,” says a voice at the door. Connor never actually knocks, just says the words, so he knows it’s him. He also knows that Connor won’t wait for an answer, he’ll just come in anyway and demand answers to questions he’ll only ask with his eyebrows.

“The joke wasn’t that bad, you know,” says Connor, cocking his head at him. “No need to cause a scene.”

“I left so I wouldn’t cause a scene,” says Kevin. “Please don’t make me feel worse than I already do.”

Connor sits down next to him on the bed, and hooks his arm under Kevin’s, patting his forearm absently.

“It’s Christmas,” says Connor. “You can’t be sad on Christmas.”

“I know,” says Kevin, morosely. He knocks the side of his head against Connor’s by accident, and then leaves it there.

“I know what will cheer you up,” says Connor. “I got you a present.”

“You did?”

“Don’t tell anyone,” says Connor. “Or they’ll think I like you more, or something.”

“Or something,” says Kevin.

“Don’t go anywhere.”

Kevin’s hands itch against the scratchy sheets as he waits, impatiently, for Connor to return. His thoughts are swimming in his head, and it’s harder, when he’s left alone with them, to try to control them into something manageable and coherent.

Connor returns, eventually, his hands behind his back.

“Okay,” says Connor. “Don’t laugh at me. And it’s not wrapped, or anything.”

He presents a book to Kevin. It’s black and horizontal, nothing special. Connor bites his lip and rocks back and forth on his heels as Kevin processes what’s just been handed to him.

“It’s a sketchbook,” says Kevin.

“It is,” says Connor. “I found it at the market. It’s for your drawings and - and notes. And stuff.”

“This is the nicest thing anyone has ever gotten me,” says Kevin, a little taken aback. He thinks about being a kid, being all excited about Santa and church and Christmas Carols, and about hot chocolate with marshmallows and watching movies on TV and roast meat and potatoes. He’s happier, here, with his new family and their new traditions and holding his sketchbook in his hands. He opens it and on the first page, in Connor’s refined handwriting, it says _Happy Holidays, Elder Price._

“Do you like it?” says Connor, sitting back down next to Kevin.

Kevin _beams_ at him.

“It’s perfect,” he says. Connor smiles back, and their faces are so close that Kevin can feel the puffs of Connor’s breath on his face. He wants to - he wants a lot, actually, and now he has a book to write it or draw it all down in and he’s starting to think maybe he doesn’t actually _need_ to say the words out loud for Connor to understand what he’s been trying to say.

Kevin wordlessly hands over a piece of paper to him.

“Ignore the joke, it was stupid anyway.” says Kevin, watching Connor hold it in his hands like it’s about to explode at any minute. “I kinda ruined it now, but - it’s a Christmas card.”

“Obviously,” says Connor. He slowly turns it over and begins to open it. He catches Kevin’s eye before he gingerly pulls the card out.

“Oh,” says Connor, looking at the front of it. He uses his biggest, toothiest smile on Kevin and it makes his knees feel gooey. He’s pretty certain Connor does it on purpose, but there’s no way to tell with him, really. Kevin was never great at reading between the lines anyway, but he’s pretty confident, from the way Connor is looking at him, that he appreciates the sentiment.

The card has a little haphazardly painted robin on it, holding something in his beak. Kevin made all the kids at school make them for their parents, or their brothers or sisters. But Kevin doesn’t have any family left, not anymore, so he makes one for Arnold and one for Nabulungi and then stays after class to make a small, secret card with the ends of the leftover paint. He doesn’t want it to look like he’s picking favourites, and anyway, he’s a little embarrassed about it because -

“Is that mistletoe in his beak?”

“If you want it to be,” says Kevin.

Connor looks at Kevin for a long time, opening and closing his mouth like a fish.

“Maybe,” he says, eventually. Kevin smiles.

“Cool,” says Kevin. He doesn’t push it. He’s getting good at being patient. Letting things happen on their own, he thinks, and allows Connor to hook his arm under Kevin’s and rest his head on his shoulder without a word. A brush of lips against his hairline, maybe; after all, Kevin talks best when he’s not speaking out loud.

 

***

Kevin finds a folded over piece of paper placed neatly on his pillow like a hotel mint. There’s a drawing of santa pulling a face and giving a crude gesture on the front. Kevin smiles down at it like an idiot, holding it in his hands, a little afraid to open it. Kevin has given Connor a lot of notes, but he’s never given one back. It makes him a little uneasy.

_Against my better judgement, you are my favourite person in the whole world._

He turns it over, surprised to find more writing.

_p.s - it really is easier to write it than say it, isn’t it?_

Kevin looks at it for a long time, reading and rereading it, because - well, there’s no way to misinterpret that, right?

He slips it under his pillow for safe keeping. When he goes back into the living area, Connor refuses to look at him, but he does smile when Kevin nudges him with his elbow. Kevin feels something thrumming in his veins, something unexpected and _exciting_. For the first time in a long time, Kevin might actually get something he wants.

 

***

Not for the first, or second, or thirtieth time, Kevin slips a note under Connor’s door. He lays down on his bed afterwards, resigning himself to a good hour or so of anxiety and nervousness. He’s almost asleep when Connor bursts through Kevin’s door and holds up a piece of paper.

“ _Do you like me_ ,” says Connor. “And then there’s two tickboxes, and they both say yes.”

“I know,” says Kevin, rubbing his eyes. “I wrote it.”

Connor stares at him, and then back at the paper.

“Did I ever tell you your handwriting looks like shit?” says Connor. “I’ve wanted to tell you that for so long. I couldn’t even read half the notes, you know.”

Kevin doesn’t say anything, just perches on the end of the bed and looks at Connor expectantly. After a while, Connor moves over and sits down next to him. The mattress sags, causing their sides to press together.

“Why did you start writing them?”

“I don’t know,” says Kevin, honestly. “Arnold says I was trying to get you to notice me.”

“Kevin,” says Connor, and then gives an exaggerated sigh. “When you’re in the room, it’s like - it’s like I can’t concentrate on anything else.”

“Oh,” says Kevin.

“You didn’t have to do this,” says Connor. “You could’ve just asked me out, you know, like a normal person?”

“I’m not a normal person,” says Kevin.

“Right,” says Connor. “You’re Elder Price. You’re incredible and extraordinary and way out of my league.”

“Who cares,” says Kevin. “I don’t.”

Connor pulls a pen out of his pocket, and uses Kevin’s upper arm as a table to write on the note. He’s writing a lot more than just crossing off a box, and it makes Kevin nervous.

“Here you go,” says Connor, handing the paper over. He hook his chin over Kevin’s shoulder to read the note with him.

 _Do you like me_? The note still says. _Y/Y_ , and then underneath, in Connor’s elegant handwriting, there’s another hand-drawn box with a cross in it that’s labelled _obviously_.

Kevin feels like his heart is hammering so hard it’s going to break his ribs.

“I wrote you one,” says Connor. “A note. I’ve been carrying it around for ages.”

He reaches into his pocket, and pulls out a small, screwed up ball of paper, like it’s been rolled between a thumb and a finger too many times. He flicks it at Kevin’s forehead.

The note says: _kiss me?_

“Oh,” says Kevin. “Yeah, okay.”

He leans in and kisses him, once, and then again for longer, and then a third time with a hint of tongue. Connor kisses him back, happily, and it feels like he’s smiling.

“I couldn’t be patient anymore,” says Kevin.

“Good,” says Connor, lowering himself down to Kevin’s mouth again. Kevin hopes he never stops kissing him. “Sorry I was being an idiot.”

“Me too,” says Kevin.

Connor leans back a little, arms slung over Kevin’s shoulders, and looks at him. Kevin looks back.

“I probably should have written you back,” he says. “But I didn’t. I didn’t want to encourage you, but then it was because I didn’t want you to stop.”

“I know,” says Kevin, because he thinks he does. “I didn’t want to stop. I still don’t want to. I just have to get more creative about where I hide them.”

“I think there’s one in my shoe right now,” says Connor, grinning, as crooked and impish as always. “They’ll also have to be less cryptic and confusing.”

“That I can do,” says Kevin, thinking about writing three little words on the back of an abandoned drawing of the three of them - Arnold, Nabulungi, Connor - under his bed. “It’s not making it weird anymore, right? If we’re together. Which I’m assuming we are, now, but I guess you know what they say about assuming, it makes a -”

“Kevin,” says Connor. “I don’t actually need you to talk out loud right now.”

Kevin nods once, twice, before leaning in again. He’s not very good at kissing, but that’s okay. If there’s only one thing he’s learned in Uganda, it’s that practicing is half the fun.

 

***

Kevin shows Arnold, first.

“These are kind of amazing,” he says. “Well, these ones suck, my glasses look _nothing_ like that and you know it. But these later ones are actually really, really good, pal.”

“Thank you,” says Kevin. “Sorry I never told you. I just wanted to be as best as I could be first. You know I hate being bad at things.”

“I get it,” says Arnold, shaking his head, still looking at the little picture he drew of Arnold and Nabulungi holding hands, Arnold asleep on her shoulder. “You wanted something to yourself, right?”

“Right,” says Kevin. “I mean, Connor knows. He punched me in the arm until I agreed to show you.”

“Good,” says Arnold. Kevin shows him the bruise. “He’s fiesty!”

Arnold sounds over the moon about it. Kevin raises an eyebrow.

“You’re a very intense person,” says Arnold. “You need somebody to you know, match you.”

Kevin sighs.

“There’s not many people who would let me send them creepy notes for a year,” says Kevin.

“You’re not wrong,” says Arnold, shrugging. “You really never drew before?”

“No,” says Kevin. “I taught myself.”

“You’re so cool,” says Arnold, bouncing slightly on the bed as he discovers another portrait of Nabulungi, wearing her seashell necklace. “Can I keep this?”

“Of course you can,” says Kevin. “I mostly drew those ones for you. Before Nabulungi got the camera, I thought - well, I didn’t know if you were going to come back or stay here, after, and I reckoned that these would be the next best thing.”

“I love you,” says Arnold, without warning, and throws his arms around Kevin. He pats Arnold on the back and makes vague shushing sounds.

“I love you too, bud,” says Kevin. “Should I show the others?”

“Yes!” says Arnold, pulling back and holding Kevin at arm’s length.

“I drew this,” says Kevin, reaching under the bed and praying for the thousandth time that a spider hasn’t found Kevin’s paper stash. “I thought maybe I could put it up. I don’t know. I feel stupid.”

The picture is of the eight of them: Davis, then Neeley, then Arnold, Kevin, Connor, Church and Michaels, with their arms around each other, some laughing, some not. Neeley is doing rabbit ears behind Arnold and Connor’s head is leaning towards Kevin’s. Michaels is making a very crude gesture, because he picked that up off Connor a while ago and he won’t stop doing it. He’s drawn a banner above their heads that says _District Nine._

“This is incredible,” says Arnold. “You can actually tell who they all are.”

“I know!” says Kevin.

“Let’s go put it up,” says Arnold, defiantly, as if Kevin is going to drag his heels. He goes willingly instead, into the living area where some of them are playing Battleship. He catches Connor’s eye, who gives him a small, private smile, and Kevin promptly loses his train of thought.

“What’s that?” says Michaels, peering over.

Kevin coughs.

“I have an announcement,” he says. Everybody turns to look at him and he sees at least two pairs of eyes roll. “I have a secret hobby that I am no longer keeping a secret.”

“Is it doing Connor?” says Church, and Kevin feels like he’s been set on fire.

“That’s not really a secret,” says Connor, lazily, leaning back on his chair. Church pulls a face at him.

“As long as I don’t have to hear it,” says Thomas.

“I already have,” says a forlorn Arnold behind him.

“Shut up,” says Kevin. “It’s not that. I’ve been teaching myself how to draw.”

He does get a reaction at that. Davis sits up and makes grabby hands, Thomas makes a vaguely surprised and interested sound, and Michaels actually stands up.

“Hang on,” says Kevin. “I want to put it up first.”

He pins it to the chalkboard amidst the photos, no longer just from Nabulungi’s birthday but from Christmas and random lazy days and Kevin with the kids and Kimbay, Michaels with Miremba, too many different days to count.

“Oh,” says Church. “It’s actually really good.”

“High praise,” says Connor, moving to stand up, curling his arm around Kevin’s back when he reaches him. It’s not really any more tactile than they were before, only now it’s not weird and confusing and it doesn’t make Kevin want to stick a cryptic note under Connor’s collar, hoping to get a reaction.

“I look fantastic,” says Thomas.

“We all do,” says Neeley. “You’ve outdone yourself, Price.”

“Can we see more?”

“Sure,” says Kevin, grinning. He can feel Connor’s smile against his cheek, before Connor kisses him, loud and wet, in the spot where his smile was pressed. “You can all fuck off if you think I’m going to pretend I’m not dating Elder Price.”

Church shrugs. Thomas looks down awkwardly, Michaels laughs, Arnold pats him on the back. Connor grins.

He glances back over at the picture of all of eight of them, looks back at Connor, and feels a warmth blooming in his chest that he’s never felt before. He’s happy, in a way he wouldn’t recognise if it weren’t for the smile he can’t keep off his face.

 

***

Connor pulls out bits and pieces of paper from under his mattress. There’s so many he can’t hold them all at once.

“You kept them,” says Kevin.

“I did,” says Connor. “Did you really think I wouldn’t?”

“Kind of,” says Kevin, pulling out a particularly crinkled note.

“That one says _why do I still put up with you_ ,” says Connor. “This one says _it’s nothing personal_. You wrote that after you had one of your little meltdowns.”

“I don’t even remember half of these,” says Kevin, pulling out another one. _it’ll be okay._

“I do,” says Connor. “Here are your sketches and stuff, too. I kept them in order. You’ve improved a lot. It’s nice to see. Like a physical manifestation of your personal development.”

Kevin flicks through them.

“I started drawing people a lot more,” he notices. “I didn’t even realise I was doing that.”

“They’re pretty good, too,” says Connor. “Although you really need to work on Neeley’s eyes. Look at this one, he looks like a bug.”

“Which one is your favourite?”

Connor hums.

“This one, I think,” says Connor. He brandishes a drawing of Connor from a little while ago. It has colour, but he’s only done his hair and freckles. He’s curled up on the couch, with his eyes closed, and he’s smiling a little. He did a pretty good job of Connor’s bony elbows, if Kevin does say so himself. Kevin remembers drawing it in the twilight hours without much light, when Connor was having a particularly bad night. “I felt awful all day. And then I wake up and you’ve drawn this picture of me and I just - it’s nice. It was a really nice thing to do. All of them were, really. Misguided, but nice.”

“How you didn’t realise I was hopelessly pining for you,” says Kevin. “I will never know.”

“I mean, I’m not an idiot,” says Connor. “I just couldn’t tell if it was creepy needy Kevin stuff or if it was, you know.”

Kevin moves closer, curls his hands around Connor’s chin, and kisses him.

“Both,” he says. Connor huffs against his mouth and Kevin swallows it, kissing him and kissing him some more, because he can, so he _will_ , the piles of paper and sketches and notes and a thousand words that Kevin still won’t be able to say out loud crushed between their chests.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Your continued support as a fandom inspires me every day and ily all so much. Seriously, thank you for all the love you guys have given me over the past year, it means the whole world to me.
> 
> Please follow/send me a message on tumblr @neverbirds if you're so inclined!


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